Moon Over Montana (McCutcheon Family Series Book 5) (7 page)

She swallowed her food, then took another drink of her doctored-up coffee. “Maybe you’re right. And the party is only three days away. Yes, I’ll concentrate on plans, visit Faith, Rachel, and Amy to get their ideas. May I wear your wedding dress, Mother?”

“I had hoped you’d ask. I’ll send one of the hands into town today to ask Berta May to come out for a fitting in the next few days. I’m sure there won’t be much that has to be done to it. I was your size when I married your father.”

Charity stood, her plate half eaten.

Her father blinked in surprise. “Where’re you going? You just sat down. You haven’t finished your breakfast yet.”

“I can’t take another bite. I have too many things to do—and I’m not hungry at all.”

Claire put out a hand in an effort to stop her. “But—”

“But nothing,” Charity replied. “I’m going out to the bunkhouse. I want to see Lucky and the boys and tell them the news personally before anyone else does.”

Her parents laughed, and Charity couldn’t remember another time when they’d both looked so pleased about something she was up to. Usually she was in trouble, and one parent, after her petitionary begging, was assuaging the other on her behalf. Charity liked this new leaf. She liked being on their good side. She liked the love she saw written plainly on their faces.

• • •

Charity knocked on the bunkhouse door, then gripped her hands in front of her buckskin riding pants, trying to be patient. The ranch yard looked neat and clean, the same horses stood in the corral as when she’d left, the same sunshine streamed through the branches of the tall pine trees. An array of branding irons decorated the sidewall next to the door. When she was little, the sight fascinated her for hours. Each brand was a story in itself.

As the only girl in the family, she’d been strictly forbidden to enter the bunkhouse without permission from Lucky—and only Lucky. It was the cowhands’ domain. They deserved privacy after long hours in the saddle. This was the only rule she’d been smart enough to know there would be hell to pay if she broke, and she never had.

A barrage of lively voices inside meant the men were up and eating, and perhaps hadn’t heard her first request to come in. She knocked again, this time with the heavy horseshoe knocker in the middle of the door. Just as she was about to give it another go, the door opened and she smacked Lucky in the face.

Surprised, the bunkhouse cook grabbed his nose and yelped.

She let out a cry of dismay and snatched back her hand.

“Lucky, I’m so sorry!” She put her arm around his middle and they walked a few feet into the bunkhouse.

Chairs scraped back as all the men stood. “Miss Charity!” A surge of warm happiness squeezed Charity’s heart.

“Let me see,” she pleaded, still trying to see Lucky’s face. She pried his hands down. “I hope I didn’t give you a bloody nose.” Relieved when there was no blood in sight, she let go her held breath.

He blinked several times and scrunched his nose. “No harm done, Miss Charity,” he said, wiggling it around, and then feeling it with his fingers. “Welcome home.”

“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this.” She was unable to keep her smile from her face. These men had practically raised her. She loved each and every one. “Please sit down and finish your breakfast before your flapjacks get cold. I just wanted to be the first to tell you—Brandon and I are
finally
getting married. You’re all invited.”

A happy cheer went up. Lucky pulled her into an embrace. “That’s darn good news, honey bear. We’re all tickled pink.”

One by one, the cowhands sat back down at the long rectangular table filled with food. A platter of potatoes, mixed with red onion and chilies, was next to a large bowl of scrambled eggs. Toast was piled a mile high, and every plate already had a flapjack or two. A red-and-white plaid napkin hung from each man’s collar, whether he was dressed for the day or was still rumpled from sleep. Roady Guthrie, shaved and spit shined, smiled at her and nodded. The hand they called Uncle Pete, even though he was no relation, still had a chin full of whiskers. John Berg and Smokey finally swallowed what they’d been chewing before she’d barged in, and wiped their mouths with a napkin. Francis stood out like a sore thumb. His mouth, stretched tight in a line, and his eyes, a cool, frosty gray as he regarded her, made her uneasy.

Charity took them in. “You already knew? I can tell by your expressions.”

Lucky nodded. “Yep. I can’t fib to ya. Roady came back from Luke’s last night with the good news. But it don’t matter who tells us, just that the event is happening. When’s the day?”

“As soon as we can pull together all our plans. Probably a month, or sooner. We would have done it last night, but Mother wanted some time to plan a wedding, me being her only daughter.”

Francis stood back up. He took the napkin from his neck and dropped it beside his plate. “I told ’em too, Miss Charity. Even before Roady did. I ran into Brandon last night in the saloon,
talking
with Fancy Aubrey.” He raised his eyebrows, as if wanting to make sure she grasped his meaning—that it was more than just talk.

A hush fell across the room like a wet blanket on a newborn pup. Who was Fancy Aubrey? And why was Brandon speaking with her?

“I tried to get a word in edgewise, you know, to ask about
you
, but they were in some deep conversation and didn’t see me for several minutes. I never did find out what was so all-important that the rest of us couldn’t hear.” He shrugged. “Oh well. Guess we’ll never know.”

Francis glanced around at the men’s pinched looks, and even from where Charity stood, she could see the top of his ears turn pink.

She lifted her chin, hurt that Francis would want to wound her this way. Her more sensible side cautioned against believing his words, even though a warm sensation crept up her neck as she pictured any woman doting on her man. And Brandon? Was he interested?

“Well, I’m sure he was glad you stopped in, Francis—when you finally caught his attention, that is. He never has anything but nice things to say about you whenever we talk. Thinks of you as family.”

Some men kept their gazes on their plates and others looked like they wanted to skin Francis alive. She felt Lucky’s hand on her shoulder.

“You pull up a chair and squeeze in between John and Smokey,” he said firmly. “I’ll fix ya a plate of flapjacks, just the way you like ’em—drowning in sweet butter and maple syrup. I have the batter right here and the skillet hot. Why, when you was a little tyke, you’d beg me to make ’em practically every week. ‘Lucky,’ you’d say in that sweet little-girl voice. ‘I ain’t had your flapjacks in a month of Sundays,’ and it had only been just the week before you said the same thing. You’d smile at me with a gap-toothed grin, and I’d melt like butter. I made ’em, sure enough, and was happy ta do it.”

All the men chuckled.

Charity struggled to keep her smile in place.

Francis stepped away from the table and went over to his bunk at the far end of the room, where he took his black leather vest from a peg over his bed. He drew the garment on, then sat on his cot as if he didn’t want to hear her stories.

“I’ve already eaten inside, Lucky, but thank you. You always did make the best flapjacks this side of the Rockies. Esperanza filled my plate with so much food, you’d think she thought I hadn’t eaten since I’d left the ranch.”

“That’s good,” Lucky replied affectionately. “You could use a little fattening up. But that don’t mean ya can’t have some coffee and visit with us.” He gimped over to the stove and filled a mug halfway with dark liquid, then poured cream to the brim. “You’re not getting out of here without telling us all about Rio Wells and John and his new wife—so stop thinking ya can. We’ve been waiting impatiently.” He handed her the cup and guided her over to a chair.

“Please, Miss Charity,” Roady said. “We really do want to hear.” Smokey and the others nodded.

“That’s right. Three months is a long time.” Uncle Pete scratched his whiskered cheek. “I’ll bet you have lots to tell.”

Charity took a deep breath, unwilling to let any of the hands see how much Francis’s words had shaken her. They shouldn’t, she chided herself. She trusted Brandon. He was the sheriff. It was his job to check on the people, all the people, of Y Knot. Saloon girls included.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t meet this woman too, and let her know Brandon was spoken for.

Chapter Nine

F
ox Dancing wiped the water droplets from her mouth, rolled to her feet, and stood, surveying the land. She’d never been this far south. The dull ache in her stomach reminded her that her dried meat was gone and she’d have to start hunting if she wanted fresh. Right now, foraging for berries and roots would have to do, regardless that those were considered old-woman’s food. She’d be grateful to have them.

The sharp cry of an eagle pulled Fox Dancing out of her musing. She climbed the bank of the pebble-strewn beach and walked to her Appaloosa mare. Searching the afternoon sky, she spotted the eagle overhead, a small black speck in the clouds.

A good sign.

She smiled. The Great Spirit was watching out for her safety. Would make her journey successful. Bring her to her brother’s dwelling, where she’d see him with her own eyes.

Luk Macatceen’s legend in their village had grown as the years passed. Her two mothers had spread the good medicine her father had shared with them about him, her powerful half-white brother. The white woman, Luk’s mother, had been bartered for return many moons after she’d been given to her father. Her white husband had come with a string of fine horses, so many that no man would have been able to turn them down. To avoid bloodshed, her father had agreed, and delivered his third wife back into the hands of her white husband, but not before he’d been told in a dream that she was carrying his son. A very powerful son. He’d hated to relinquish her, but he could see in her eyes from the moment she heard the name Macatceen, she’d never really been his to keep.

Her father had traveled this route several times to see his half-white son, never thinking she’d one day do the same.

Now it was her turn to see her brother. What would Luk Macatceen do when he saw her? Would he recognize the slant to her eyes and the high set to her cheekbones as his? Their father said she held a strong resemblance to him. Excitement surged within when she thought of the meeting. It was fortunate Luk’s mother had taught her father some of the white language, which he’d passed on to Fox Dancing.

Well, she’d never get there if she stood around daydreaming about him. She took out her knife and dug at the base of a reed, pulling up a stalk with three tubers attached to the root. She continued until she had a handful, then went back to the stream to wash them in the sparkling cold water.

Taking a bite, she chewed, wishing the rubbery root was a fresh slice of elk meat, hot from the coals.

Men’s voices drifted across the water to where she stood.

Instantly, she dropped to her stomach.

She flattened herself out on the cold ground, her heart jerking wildly, painfully in her chest. Glancing over to her horse, asleep on the bank, she spotted her quiver and bow where she’d left them on a rock.

Where were they? She picked up her head just enough to scan the opposite side of the stream. Blood pulsed in her ears, making it difficult to hear anything else. So far from home, they were sure to be white. Being caught would mean a slow and dishonorable death—one she was not ready to face.

She dragged in a raspy breath, praying her horse didn’t nicker when she heard the other animals approaching.

Through narrowed eyes, Fox Dancing spotted the riders. Not far, and coming in her direction. Leather cases hung from their saddles, carrying steely gray rifles.

If she didn’t go now, she’d be found. She was surprised they hadn’t seen her already.

Fox Dancing pushed to her feet. Before the men even saw her, she’d gathered her weapons and vaulted onto her mare.

A shout went up.

She recognized the word
Indian
, then the word
squaw
. She had her mare turned and into a full gallop before she dared to glance over her shoulder.

With gleeful faces, the white men were charging across the stream at the same time they reached for their rifles. Leaning onto the neck of her mare, she flung back her arm, slapping her horse’s flank with her bow.

Her mare surged forward. Pulling the leather rein, Fox Dancing guided her horse sharply to the left and ascended a steep embankment that the white dogs would never be brave enough to ride. She clung to her mare’s long mane, squeezing with her legs when she felt herself slipping back.

Trees and rocks blocked her path, impeding her getaway. Her mare slowed, heaving beneath her as she struggled to make the climb.

The crashing sound behind told her the men were still giving chase. Laughter reached her ears, then a curse. A bullet zipped past her head and splintered a branch next to her face. Had she fled Painted Bear Stone just to be dishonored at the hands of white dogs and then killed?

She wouldn’t consider that option! She’d meet her white brother. She’d seen the meeting in a dream.

Her horse, breathing hard, finally crested the embankment. Fox Dancing took heart. She could now kill the men hunting her with ease, if she chose to. But that would only bring more white dogs sniffing after her trail.

With a bloodcurdling cry, she spun her horse toward the dense forest and disappeared inside. She was surprised to still hear the men in pursuit. Turning to look one more time, she didn’t see the slick black ferns of a woodland spring until it was too late. Her mare slipped, going down. An upturned branch impaled Fox Dancing’s arm.

She swallowed her cry of pain. Moisture sprung to her eyes as her horse scrambled to her feet. On her hands and knees, Fox Dancing emptied the little contents of her stomach onto the musty earth floor. Taking several deep breaths, she grasped the branch sticking out of her arm and yanked it out. She climbed to her feet, a wave of dizziness almost dropping her.